Tuesday, 27 September 2016


ME: Ines has just discovered fractals, and she freaking out

IVAN: What are fractals I've heard the word before

ME: Ok...Imagine an object, like a snowflake, and you zoom in and the fractional parts of the objects are identical to the whole, infinitely.


ME: So the closer you zoom in the more there is, like the universe see?


ME: The inside is the outside, small is big and never ends, so she's freaking out.

IVAN: Yep, as above so below.

ME:So I says that's what poetry is.


ME: Some math dork discovered what peeps have been drawing in mandalas for thousands of years. This shit is what art is for.

IVAN: Yep.

ME: They try use an artificial language (math) to describe what art describes: the ultimate equation to the theory for everything will be one image -like the sight of the holy grail- that will be so overwhelming and so comprehensible at first glance that the spectator dies.

IVAN: The observer sees himself: BANG!

ME: Yep! So funny the search is circular: always the same and then forgotten, so it can begin again like time - circular.

IVAN: Exactly, we drink from the cup of forgetting, so we can remember on each awakening.

ME: Yes! I think that quantum waves are tubes so the particles travel-surf back - and forward too -
only back and forward depends on a fixed point see? and there IS no fixed point anywhere and it all spins and sways like the dervishes. That is what I think.

IVAN: I think i need a drink now.

from "Conversations with Ivan Shapiro"

Thursday, 22 September 2016


i have been
black faces
all my life


face after face
an endless parade
a race to unfold
dark power
in smooth slick spill
oily ink on the
whitest empty page

i think i will
single them out
one by one
fill each page
with one face
out of the dark

would you like to play
the analysis game?
make the complex plain
give the thing a name?

shall we say:
the subconscious fear
of a white child in Africa?
fearful fascination
with the forbidden?
a gulp of guilt?

or is it just
the worse of all:
unexplainable magic
summoned faces
from the past
slivers of the future
peeking through
shattered barriers

magic spray-painted
in blood on brain
on the only cavern
inside which
we still cower
freeing the ghosts
planting strange flowers
or giving birth
to a multitude
destined to build
mythic towers


Monday, 19 September 2016


you can beat up
your children
boil up the cat
cheat on your taxes
we don't care
about that

you can steal
from the poor
cheat on your spouse
be an all-round shit
an unbearable louse
but whatever you do
be sure not to screw
someone the same
gender as you...

oh no!
that just won't do!
goodness, no!
the dirt
the hurt
the slur
the unbearable stain
on the family name!

yep, don't you dare
to insinuate
the love that dare
not breathe its name
exists out of those
magazines and blogs
and reality shows
with people with fake tits
and pink plastic clogs

let's not forget
our etiquette
stand up straight
bow from the waist
and lie till you die
about anything
you like
but don't ever
admit grandma
was a dike...


Sunday, 18 September 2016


The difference between a military victory and a moral victory is usually the body count. Generally speaking, people who are right dont reach for a gun: those who don't have a leg to stand on ALWAYS reach for a club or a rifle as a crutch...

Unfortunately the latest fashion for the cowardly as well as morally challenged seems to be a bomb.

Manuela Cardiga

Saturday, 17 September 2016


red cherry drop
of poison smile
slash of black
slant-luster glance
under swallow-wing

grace bows
elegance trades
icy jade-blossom
bonsai-twists a kiss
credit card-goodbye

Manuela Cardiga

Friday, 16 September 2016


i shape my face
to the expected farse
pin charm in place
like some dowager
pinning a shawl to cover
slips and stains
of wasted time

the pin strikes deep
through weave and skin
nevermind! i cry
with a dizzy smile
the yellow stain
of disappointment
shows up less;

so let me bleed
bright rubies instead.

Manuela Cardiga

love is water-sweet
to the thirsty

love is bitter-salt
in the desert
of absence

Manuela Cardiga

I close my eyes
and home-sick geese
stitch their desire
across the skies

I close my eyes
and fleet-winged,
love dies.

Manuela Cardiga

there is a bucket
with a hole in it
the shape and size
of the moon

i fished for that moon
in the well of Urd
and lost a dream
snubbed a toe
tore a scheme

there is a heart
with a hole in it
whole and broke
and blood and stone

there is a hole
and the light
of the moon
bleeds out

there is a pin-hole
and the bucket drips
drips the last drop:
no hope.

Manuela Cardiga

Thursday, 15 September 2016

Tigger and Thoreau: Same-same...

ME: "Winnie the Pooh and Tigger Too". That's the philosophy book for me. Just because something is simple doesn't make it's simplistic.

IVAN: Simplicity, magnanimity and trust: Thoreau.

ME: Too intellectual for me, this guy. I dig Tigger

IVAN: Which guy?

ME: Thoreau.

IVAN: No he ain't!

ME: Ye he is! Is he orange and does he bounce on his tushie???

IVAN: He is a tiger in man-clothes!

ME: So....Thoreau is really Tigger in disguise?


ME: Never read Thoreau. Tell me about him.

IVAN: Ah! Thoreau! He was a sensualist and an observer deluxe, and his language is poetic. He wrote for himself.

ME: I like him already.

IVAN: Yep, you gonna love him. Very practical guy, he could see, he was awake.

ME: Was he happy?

IVAN: Well, he was a cohort of Emerson's. Lived in Emerson's garden.

ME: Those da dudes that waffled on about autumn leaves and boinked women with long flowing tresses from them Pre-Raphaelite paintings?

IVAN: Yep.

ME: Them were happy dudes, then. That was before it was fashionable to be artistically tortured by genius and commit suicide by booze and drugs.

IVAN: Absolutely.

ME: Cool! So, Tigger and Thoreau...Same-same...Fancy that!

from Conversations with Ivan Shapiro

Monday, 12 September 2016

Between the continuation of another species and the survival of a single human child, I pick the child.


There is a hysterical Protect the Fluffy Animals fanaticism that absolutely drives me WILD.


Frankly this kind of anti-human chauvinistic selective blindness makes me nauseous. Mankind has been an influence on their biosphere for less than 10.000 years and has had a palpable impact for less than 200.

Millions of species have gone extinct in the past 500 million years and many more will do so in the next - WITH NO HELP FROM US!

As far as I can ascertain we are probably the only species who actually gives a flying fuck about ANY OTHER SPECIES.

YES, we have an impact. Is it evil? NO. It is called the natural development of a predatory species to fill all available spaces in an ecosystem.

Everyone's current pet-hate (which is what set off this little rant of mine) the poachers are doing what is perfectly logical for a predator in the Natural World: hunting to provide for their young.

Do I condone what poachers do? Not at all, I agree that we should protect species, but that is, in fact, an unnatural situation stemming from human self-awareness and a sense of compassion for the less resilient.

In truth, we are favoring the continuation of species that has been unable to adapt to a change in conditions. Human influence on the Earth is no different from an Ice-Age, and animals that cannot adapt to adversity die. That's how Life with a BIG L works.

Place things in perspective, please. This kind of unthinking knee-jerk, bleeding-heart attitude is completely irrational.

And please stop saying that "animals are pure and sensitive and naturally loving; humans are evil"
Have you ever seen the images of an orca pack hunting down a gray whale mother and baby?

The Orca will drive the mother off and drown the baby and eat only the tongue. They spend hours on it. There are easier and faster ways to get their protein, yet they invest energy and time in this.

The body of the baby whale is discarded, you understand. They eat only the tongue. As a delicacy or a trophy, take your pick.

Want to start shooting Orcas on sight as cruel and mindless poachers, predating on an endangered species?

And never tell me again that humans are "abomination". Look around you.

Our society is filled with people who would not be equipped to survive in a "natural environment". Their continued existence is due to human compassion and selflessness. We defend our weak. Animals bend to the Natural law of the "survival of the fittest".

In Nature, amongst the "sensitive and loving" animals the sick or disabled are abandoned or become early victims for predators. Protected animal species still exist because of Man. If Humans are evil monsters "abominations in the sight of God" (I quote directly!) NONE of them would even be thought about let alone protected.

I have a child, and I work with children. I am privileged to be in daily contact with the very best of Humanity. As a Human, I am a top-end predator with progeny to protect. I tell you frankly, between the continuation of another species and the survival of a single human child, I pick the child.

By the way! I also eat meat with great gusto AND I own a vintage Mink from the 50's I inherited from my gran.

I would not go out and buy one now - but I wear the one I own.
I will not apologize for myself, my nature or my instincts.

If you don’t like it, sod off and unfriend me.

P.S.: If you are a Sensitive Bleeding Heart outraged by my post I must warn you that as an expression of my insufferable Human self-centered shitty "the world-is-mine-attitude" and natural intrinsic hard-hearted bitchiness, any remarks I don't like will be removed.

If we wished in truth to expunge certain ills from our society we would be more effective in targeting the people who make the unpalatable or criminal activities commercially viable and completely irresistible in the poverty-stricken Third World.

So if we wished to eradicate things like child-prostitution, human or animal trafficking, or the raising of drug crops we need to remove the wealthy end-consumers AND give the poor of the world alternative ways of earning a living.

Until then, it really is no use ranting and raging against the poachers, the pimps or the opium farmers as "inhuman monsters deserving death" - and how many of the ranters have ever REALLY felt true and desperate hunger? Not going without a meal or delaying the satisfaction of a craving for calories for a few hours - but cramping hunger that feels like your body is consuming itself, and seeing that same feverish agony in your children's faces?

Go after the rich consumers, rant and rage at the hidden monsters in the First World, why don't you? You would be astounded to find how many are friends, neighbours or people you look up to as successful, wealthy, reputable and admirable...


Thursday, 8 September 2016

Gospel of the Goddess Book I (vii): So did my Goddess yield her Holy Rage and step aside from the Path of War and Strife for the embrace of a simple man, and a gentle life as his wife.

She sits opposite her father. It is twilight. She raises a tea-cup to her lips. It is tiny, fragile. Strange golden dragons cavort and writhe under her fingers, every scale proud. In the cup the tea is red-gold, aromatic, scented steam rises in the cold room.

Across from her is the cold man, wiping fastidiously at the lips nestled under his mustache. There is only the soft click of the spoons, the porcelain and the clock ticking in tune. They do not speak. They never speak.

A knock. "Come!" he cries - and John enters. He looks flustered.

"Sir, the Stable Master would speak with you." Her father frowns perplexed and annoyed.

"I don't discuss Stable matters at my table. Tell O'Neill that." John nods and departs. Her father picks at a small comfit, and raises his head at a new knock.


It is John again, scarlet faced. "Sir, I'm sorry Sir, but..."

"Well? What is it?"

"Mr. O'Neill said he does not discuss private matters at the Stable."

Her father throws down his napkin, "The cheek of the man! Send him in! "

Her father rises, takes a cigar from his box, rolls it between his fingers, lights it. Never does he look at her, not once.

"The cheek!" He cries again, and looks at the wall, to the left of her shoulder, never ever raising his eyes to her face.

A third knock, and John ushers in Seamus. Seamus O'Neil, in a worsted suit.

"Sir," He nods at her father, he looks at her, right in the eyes, "My Lady."

"Well, O'Neill? What is it? Something wrong with Termagant’s Child? Are the stables on fire?"

"No, Sir. I wished to speak to you on a personal matter."


"Sir, I have been in your employ for sixteen years now, you have my measure as a man. I am a respectable man, Sir, and a hard worker. I am an honest man."

"What is this about?"

"Sir, I am not a poor man. I am not rich, of course, but I own my own land, free and clear; I am beholden to none."

"Are you wanting a raise? Is this what you are on about, O'Neil?"

"Sir, I am not as young as I might wish, forty-two, Sir." Seamus suddenly grins, "But I have all my own teeth, my bit of land, with a house - modest, but mine- and a small stable with some likely foals. What I mean to say...I am here Sir, as an honorable man, asking you for your daughter’s hand."

Hilary hears a gasp, realizes it is her own, breaking the deadly silence. Her father is speechless by the fire, the cigar forgotten between his fingers. Seamus O'Neil stands dead still. There is no fear in him. He is as unperturbed as she has so often seen him, with a raging horse under his hands. He is, as always, himself.

Her father draws in a great whoosh of breath. "Get out. Now. You are insane, or drunk. I will disregard this. Get out."

"No, Sir. I won't. Not without an "aye" or "nay" from you.

"You dare? My daughter? I will not dignify your insolence with an answer!"

"Sir, I love her Ladyship. The love of a good man is no dishonor."

"Your presumption is! You are fired! And refused, should you still have any doubts about that."

Hilary rises, steps into the fight.

"It is not for you to refuse, Father. I am twenty-and-eight. I am of age." She turns to Seamus, "Mr. O'Neill, I accept."

A wash of scarlet swells her father’s face. "Slut!" he screams, and the chords of his neck strain at his shirt collar. "You refuse good men, and fornicate with Irish scum?"

Seamus steps closer to him, to the fire. "You'll not speak to her Ladyship so in my presence Sir, father or no. There has been no fornicating. I am a true man, Sir. But aye. I am Irish scum. As was your good Lady's Gram. As for you Sir...Are you not as Irish-born as I am?"

"Out! Both of you! And as for you, Hilary, not a penny of my money will you see, not one!"

"I have no need of your money, Father, I have my own, from my Mother. And as Mr. O'Neill has assured you, he is not destitute. You need not concern yourself on my account."

"Concern! You have ruined me! Ruined! I will be a laughing-stock. My daughter fornicating with stable-hands!"

Hilary walking to the door, pauses there and turns back with that grace so at odds with her bulk.

"Why, Father...You can always tell them that was a taste I acquired honestly, from your blood. From what I understand, you too rather enjoy fucking stable-boys."


Manuela Cardiga

Wednesday, 7 September 2016

Excerpt from "GODDESS OF WAR"

Gospel of the Goddess
Book I (i)

In the beginning was the Word and the Word was War.
I am the first Disciple, the Dark One, the Follower in the Shadows, and I heard the Holy Words of the Goddess from Her very lips; from Her Dreams I drank the Gospel, the Revelation and the Prophecy.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was Woe.
Even Gods are born, for such is the Fate of all speaking things. 
The Goddess was born as her father's only child: An odd, embarrassing, and peculiar child; but his heir, none the less. They named Her Hilary, a name of honour in the family. The name She would bear in Her human life, the name destined for a beloved daughter, a once much desired and longed for daughter. (ii)

Hilary had been born in a welter of dark blood, a presage to her future. She had been born on the exhalation of her Mother’s dying breath - a tragedy that was common, prosaic and fitting; for childbirth is ever women’s battlefield, and yet none gather from it honour or recognition of valour.

She was born to the wretched screams of her father's pain, her mother having fallen into the stuporous silence of the death-sleep.
Her blueish infant flesh was laved by indifferent hands; she was warmed and declared likely to live and handed to a woman whose only qualification for nurture was the copious outpouring of her breasts.

Of sensibility or tenderness of feeling for the new-born she held this woman laid no claim. She proffered her nipple to the eager mouth with a wince of distaste, and a turning away of her face. The avidity of the child's noisy suckling in that chamber of death disgusted her; the starfish clutch of the minute hands on her flesh repulsed her. She found the child's pallid translucid skin, the virulent red of the fuzz covering the pulsing skull repellent. This was a changeling, surely: Born in blood, destined for pain.

Thus was Hilary welcomed into the world, and this was the loving embrace into human society that Fate and circumstance reserved for her.

Deprived of love - the natural and necessary aliment for every soul - none the less, Hilary thrived. Healthy and stubborn as a weed she grew at an unprecedented rate, and in an era when children died with monotonous and distressing regularity for the slightest of complaints, she was hardy and husky. Strength of limb and lungs assured her of all the necessities that can be guaranteed by ferocity and vociferous complaint.

She grew, she walked and sooner than expected - she spoke.
As the only female in a household of men, Hilary was treated at times as a male, at others with a clumsy confusing deference to her female condition so at odds with her physicality and her personality as to verge on cruelest mockery.

At the age of four she was aggressive, unlovely and unloving. At four she had been aware she was a killer, had cringed in her bed while a drunken man with her father's face screamed at her, screamed and cried, tears and snot combined to soak into his mustache.

“She died, my love died...And what did I get for it? What did I get? You killed her, you little monster! Why didn't you die? Why didn't you die?” He had nearly fallen, clutched at one of the bedposts, stood swaying, and staring down at her. Then he cried out, “Helen!” he bent over, vomited at the feet of her bed, fell. Hilary had inched down to see him sprawled there, his white shirt soiled and crumpled. “Helen...Helen...I am so sorry...Helen...”

Yes, she had been a killer. The next day she had gone down through the kitchen, to where the cook's tabby nursed her kittens, and taken one. She took the kitten out to the broad back lawn, down to the pond, and held it under the water until it drowned. It didn't take long, and it wasn't hard.

She had sat and sucked at one of the long scratches on her hand inflicted by the tabby, and watched the little striped thing float away. 

She was a killer, she had killed her mother, she had killed her father's heart, now she had killed a tabby's kit. And it felt alright. It felt peaceful, sitting by the water watching death, and being alive.

Manuela Cardiga